


NIC

by rara_avis



Series: Fitter Happier (DBH Shorts) [1]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Dom/sub Undertones, Gunplay, M/M, Public Blow Jobs, Self-Lubrication, read warnings in notes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-18
Updated: 2018-10-18
Packaged: 2019-08-03 20:38:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16333049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rara_avis/pseuds/rara_avis
Summary: Connor's ability to preconstruct has failed him, as it has failed him most of the night. He has miscalculated the unpredictable variable that is human nature. Especially concerning Lieutenant Anderson, inebriated and philosophically incensed, with his firearm only two steps from Connor’s head.(An alternative end to the Bridge scene.)





	NIC

**Author's Note:**

> Hank threatens Connor's life. Connor puts Hank's rifle *and* his gun down his throat in retaliation. Just an IRQ-esque Mach/Dev Connor PWP!
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> **Warnings: Not meant to be DubCon, but Hank’s attitude may read that way!**
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> Thanks to Twitter Jericho for y’all’s great brand of rowdy horny fun!
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> **This work was posted originally under another username.**

Connor has made more than one miscalculation tonight, all varying in intensity and complexity, their consequences not yet fully realized. It has put him in a state of distress, though he as attempted to quell these tremors of uncertainty. Yet his mind replays his failures, forcing him to process them while he also attempts, unsuccessfully, to debrief the evening with his partner, Lieutenant Anderson.

Minor issues evaluated include, but are not limited to:

Picking three (3) of the wrong Traci models in reviewing footage of the murderer, despite their clear vantage points, a waste of time;

The fight with the two (2) deviant Tracis. It had not been a fight Connor had been prepared to have, and thus his ability to call on his physical combat protocols was not easily accessed. It had also been complicated by Lieutenant Hank Anderson’s presence; and

After the events at the Eden Club, Connor has allowed Lieutenant Anderson to drink and he has engaged in conversation with Lieutenant Anderson on sensitive, personal topics.

Major issues are much simpler to qualify in terms of scale and potential long-term repercussions.

They are:

Letting the two (2) deviated Tracis escape; and

Reminding that Lieutenant Anderson androids are machines, and machines don’t feel anything.

Lieutenant Anderson reacts to this statement -- _poorly._ A pall of anger shadows the human man’s brow. Connor convinces himself he is not intimidated, only on alert -- If Lieutenant Anderson wishes to damage him in some fashion, then it will be to his expense. Connor is able to withstand a great deal of physical stress.

This does not mean he is impervious to _cognitive_ stress, which he is feeling a great deal of at the moment.

Primarily due to Lieutenant Anderson pulling his revolver and aiming it between his eyes, demanding Connor’s stance on existential dread.

Despite Connor's attempt at verbally expressing his uncertainty at his choices in the Club, the level of fear he must feel at the threat Lieutenant Anderson is posing -- _I would certainly find it regrettable to be -- interrupted -- before I can finish this investigation_ \-- Lieutenant Anderson does not lower the gun.

 _Something_ Connor has said is not adequate to deescalate the current situation. Connor's ability to preconstruct has failed him, as it has failed him most of the night. He has miscalculated the unpredictable variable that is human nature. Especially concerning Lieutenant Anderson, inebriated and philosophically incensed, with his firearm only two steps from Connor’s head.

Connor attempts to find the most effective way to avoid damage, but finds that he is distracted in this attempt by his body responding to the current Stress and Risk elevation.

_What will happen if I pull this trigger? Hm?_

He suffers from inexplicable arrhythmia of his Thirium pump.

_Nothing?_

His limbs rendered momentarily immobile. He feels dehydrated.

_Oblivion?_

Is he out of options?

_Android Heaven?_

Is this _fear?_

Connor steps forward. He rests his forehead against the muzzle of the revolver. He lowers his eyes, looking at the ground. At his boots, at Lieutenant Anderson's boots. At the snow, and the slush, and the dirt. The distant sound of cars and industry, the sway and groan of the bridge above the rolling bay.

 _You can’t kill me, Lieutenant_ , he could say. _I'm not alive._

No, no: that’s the wrong card to play. He’d end up with a bullet in his head.

 _I doubt there's a heaven for androids_ , he could say. Not much of a risk to appeal to Lieutenant Anderson's darker humor.

 _Nothing_ , he could say. _Nothing would happen._

That, at no risk at all. It is the truth, as hollow as it feels.

None of these options seem correct to Connor. None of them convey his frustration, his contempt, for himself and his failures, for Lieutenant Anderson’s behavior towards him when he has done nothing wrong.

Instead of words, or the safety of surrender, Connor chooses risk. A bluff based solely on a few moments in time when Lieutenant Anderson has let his eyes linger on Connor. 

His fingers curl on the barrel of Lieutenant Anderson's gun.

Lieutenant Anderson does not yank the gun away, as it is clear Connor is not attempting to pull it away. Connor lowers it to his mouth and purses his mouth against it. The sight now rests against the bow of his upper lip.

He looks Lieutenant Anderson directly in the eyes.

Lieutenant Anderson wavers. The barrel shakes as the gun shakes beneath Connor's cool hands.

Connor pitches his voice low and says, "I don't think either of us wants to find that out, Hank."

Lieutenant Anderson's -- Hank's -- grip steadies when Connor says his preferred name. He does not speak, but his mouth opens. Breath clouds his face.

Connor opens his mouth and tugs the barrel gently past his lower lip and to his tongue. He extends his tongue and lets it slide under the barrel. He closes his mouth over the uneven, unyielding metal head of the gun and shuts his eyes.

"What the fuck?" Hank asks. He doesn't move away.

Connor knows, in theory, how fellatio works. He knows, abstractly, how he may perform it on an object not normally used for such purposes. He knows, potentially, Hank could pull the trigger at any moment.

He opens his eyes half way, a deliberate gesture that he knows highlights how long his lashes are.

Hank removes his finger from the trigger and rests it against the trigger guard.

He continues to fellate the gun. There is only so far it will go in his mouth, but he is able to slide it inside far enough for the muzzle to touch his of uvula. He makes a noise, something that vibrates against the metal of the barrel. He allows himself to salivate, mixing with the metal and gun oil. It allows it to slide more easily out of his mouth, right to his lips, and then forward towards the grip. Towards Hank's hands. Connor senses their warmth.

Connor's blood pumps quickly enough to simulate dizziness. It is the Risk that keeps his blood pressure high. But this is -- intriguing. Worth the orange imprint of Caution and Warning over his HUD, then dismissing them, overriding his safety protocols manually.

"Shit, Connor," Hank says. His voice betrays his hesitation.

Connor pulls back to the muzzle once more, making sure there is suction enough and saliva enough to create an inciting damp noise. Through his half-open eyes he sees Hank react to the noise. The man's face is red and his mouth is still open.

Hank's tongue darts across his drying lips. He is on the verge of saying something, but he needs -- encouragement.

_Encouragement? After he's placed a gun at your head?_

Connor tongues the muzzle of the barrel. He tongues the hole of the barrel. He makes eye contact with Hank again. He closes his mouth over the sight. When he opens his mouth wide enough for the metal to clear his front teeth, Hank takes the gun away.

Hank shoves the gun back into his jacket. There's the slight clack of keys. The sound of his belt buckle rattling against his jeans button. The sound of --

Connor lowers his gaze. Hank is removing his belt.

"Other things you can use that mouth on," Hank says, and walks back to the bench beside his beer and sits, straight-backed and expectant.

Connor walks forward towards the bench. Though Stress and Risk levels have lowered to nominal levels, his blood pressure has not leveled out.

"Get down on your knees," Hank says. He spreads his legs. His open belt clicks against one of the full beer bottles. His jean zipper is half lowered. His erection is now noticeable in his boxers.

This is inappropriate conduct, Connor knows. They are in a public place and could be seen by passersbys at any moment. They work together and fraternization is frowned upon. Hank is a human who hates androids, and Connor is an android that has not been programmed to perform any sort of sexual act.

The lingering 'taste' of gunmetal, however, reminds Connor that he is excellent at improvisation.

Connor kneels.

"Get it out," Hank says. He hooks one arm around the back of the bench and places his hand on Connor's head. Ruffling the hair. "Well?"

Connor reaches forward to finish pulling down the zipper. He pulls down the boxers next. They are made of flexible, satin-like synthetic material and a stretchy waistband, so it is simple enough to pull them down and under Hank's half-hard shaft.

His eyes widen. His mouth opens. Hank is --

 _Thick_ , perhaps, is the word, but it seems almost an understatement. Even not fully aroused, the shaft has great girth and length.

Connor licks his own dry lips.

"You like what you see?" Hank snorts, tugging at Connor's hair.

"I --" Connor hesitates. He shouldn't have a preference for seeing a human's erect sexual organ. But the answer is -- “Yes.”

"You liked my gun so much,," Hank says, leaning down, his breath heavy with beer and the same menace as when he'd first raised the gun to threaten Connor. Despite the alcohol, however, he is sober. “I thought you might like something that’ll go smoother down your throat.”

"Yes, I did," Connor says. “And yes, I do.”

The odd feeling of heat in Connor’s thermal core despite the chill is -- disconcerting to him. A physical juxtaposition that is out of the ordinary. As is this moment in time, where Connor is on his knees before Lieutenant Hank Anderson, about to perform fellatio on him.

Connor's hands rest on Hank's thighs and he leans over to survey what he's about to do. Hank's large, warm hands caress Connor's face, cheekbone, jaw, chin. He lifts Connor's face and brings it forward.

"You wanna learn to suck cock, Connor?" Hank asks. His voice is pitched in a low frequency that makes Connor's core heat up further. Enough for a Warning. "'Cause it seems like a night you're hot to learn a lot of new things."

Connor looks at Hank's erection (his cock). Connor inhales. His olfactory sensors begin to calculate what it is he's scenting. His nose and face and lips feel warm so close to Hank's groin.

He notices his respiration rate has increased. Clearly, to regulate his rising core temperature. Despite the cold, the snow.

"You're hot for it, huh," Hank says, his voice still in his lower register. It is a low-frequency noise that is indicative of deep thought, of frustration and anger, and -- arousal, clearly. "Pretty little thing like you, hot for me."

"Yes," Connor says, because this is what Hank wants to hear. To _say_ it makes some of his redundant internal circuits respond. As if to remind him: _you want things, too_. "What do I do first, Lieutenant?"

Hank snorts. He takes the hand he's got wrapped around the back of the bench and lays his hand flat on Connor's head. He adjusts his seat so that he splays more, bracing his feet on the ground.

"Open that smart-ass mouth of yours," Hank says.

Connor considers his angles. Connor lowers his head to allow Hank to see the tilt of his cheekbones and his lowered lashes. He opens his mouth.

"Finally doing what I tell you," Hank says. Growls. The reverb in his chest makes Connor's respiration stutter. "Yeah."

Hank's thumb rests against Connor's lower lip and pushes it down. He guides his cock closer. Connor tenses, despite knowing he has the physical capacity to take Hank's thick erection into his mouth. It is not a matter of geometry and spatial awareness. Something else is making Connor hesitate.

"Stick your tongue out," Hank says.

Connor does so. He touches it briefly to Hank's thumb, lapping at the knuckle. Hank takes in a quick breath.

"Lick the head," Hank says. He takes his hand from Connor's hair and reaches to cup his own cock, tugging down the foreskin and exposing the cockhead.

Connor takes a breath, though he does not need to breathe.

His tongue touches the head of Hank's erection. The taste is a jolt to his senses. It is not taste as humans experience it. It is the algorithm of his gustatory protocol to pick apart the organic and inorganic, the complexity of DNA and of elements. Here there is -- _Hank._ His genetic material, his sweat and hormones.

Connor licks Hank's cock again. Again. Hank's thumb digs into the side of his mouth, holding his jaw open. Sliding his erection into Connor's mouth. The delicate texture of the foreskin along the hard, blood-thickened shaft sends a jolt of heat to his core.

"Tongue it," Hank says. "Get it all wet, Connor. Just like you did the gun."

Connor shuffles forward. His fingers curl into fists against Hank's thighs. He forgets his angles, now -- certainly, Hank will find him attractive at _this_ vantage point, regardless -- and he begins to lap at the cock that's now partway into his mouth. He salivates as he's been asked to do. One of Hank's thick fingers catches some of the spit and drags it under Connor's jaw.

Every swipe of his tongue tells him: _this is Lieutenant Anderson_. This is the essence of who he is, his genetics and his arousal. He has shown no interest in sex acts, only discomfort in being propositioned at the Eden Club. _This is because of_ you _, Connor. You are_ different _._

Connor tries to close his mouth but Hank's thumb keeps it open. He makes a noise that's meant to convey frustration.

"You really want that dick, huh?" Hank says. He pulls himself out of Connor's mouth, because he has control of Connor's mouth and jaw with one hand and his hand on his cock with the other. "I didn't know you were programmed to be a slut, Connor."

Connor, who cannot speak because Hank has control of his mouth and jaw, narrows his eyes to convey displeasure.

"What? You weren't?" Hank, replying as if Connor has spoken. He grins in a manner Connor knows to be both sincere and dangerous. "I guess I gotta do everything for CyberLife, huh?"

Hank lets go of his cock. He puts both hands on Connor's jaw.

"Put one of your hands on my dick," Hank says.

Connor takes a hand away from Hank's thigh to wrap around Hank's thick, warm shaft. Its heat feels as if it should cause some kind of Warning, as if it will burn his palm through the dermal layer to his casing.

"Oh, that's nice," Hank says. "Open up that pretty mouth for me, Connor."

Connor opens his mouth for Hank.

His cock slides in Connor's mouth. It bumps the roof of Connor's mouth. Connor salivates to ease its entry. He does not have a gag reflex but his system warns him of an intrusion as the cockhead rests against the edge of his throat.

Hank's fingers massage Connor's jaw as Connor takes his cock. His palms smooth against his cheeks. Hank takes his hands away as Connor's mouth reaches where he's grasped Hank's cock.

"Suck it," Hank says.

Connor complies. He pulls Hank's cock out to take in a breath to create suction. His hand strokes the root of Hank's erection (his dick) and he feels his own saliva touch the thumb and forefinger. He senses --

 _everything_ about Hank. His internal display keeps pulling up reference to Hank's name, his history, as Connor works Hank's stout cock with his tongue. He is careful of Hank's foreskin, as he is unsure of the pressure that Hank is comfortable with. He pulls the skin up as his mouth goes down to meet his fist, the uncovered head dragging over the top of his palate, and squeezes.

Hank's hand fists in Connor's hair. He growls in a manner that rattles Connor’s skeletal system, the sound deep and primal. Connor shudders. His insides run molten hot. His self-cooling protocols begin to trigger. He feels a chill slide through his abdomen. When the lubricant reaches his rear port he gasps in a sudden rush of sensation. Neural sensors switching on as the slick's warmth meets with the cold air that circulates around the seat of his denim.

"What's wrong, Connor?" Hank says, tugging him up to meet his eyes. Connor wonders what Hank sees, because his face goes from smug to surprised. "Holy shit."

Connor strains to look down. His hand is still on Hank's cock, though he's paused stroking. He salivates unintentionally when he thinks of tasting Hank's precum.

"You look fucking --" Hank clears his throat. "You want it _that_ bad."

"Yes," Connor says. Squeezing again. The sensation of not completing a circuit of action is making him -- antsy. "I've also been interrupted."

Hank stares, then he huffs: "All right then, kid. Get back to it."

Connor attempts not to lunge at the chance to put his mouth on Hank again. It doesn’t become him. His blood pressure is high again. He is soaking through his briefs with his body's attempt at regulating this new, aberrant act. He thinks of how empty his mouth feels when he draws back from Hank's hard shaft. He slides it further in his mouth. Right before it is fully in his throat. Spit dribbles down his chin and his neck, mixing with the winter air, a deep chill registering in his system. His tongue searches, investigating what it is that makes Hank yank at his hair harder, and then doing it immediately upon discovery.

Hank's hips buck sharply, the bench creaking as he moves. Connor is at Hank’s mercy to set the pace. Hank’s panting, swearing under his breath -- _fuck, fuck, fuck, kid, fuck_ \-- and each thrust, aided by the excessive amounts of Connor's spit, produces a slippery, almost sloppy noise. Connor thinks of this sound, this brutal force Hank is displaying and tries to extrapolate if Hank’s cock in Connor’s tight filter port would make the same sound. His synthetic sphincter stretched wide open on Hank's dick, the length dripping wet with Connor’s slick. Connor makes a hum of discontent at this physical deficit, like a human whine. He uses a free hand to undo his belt, to shove his denim and briefs down, to reach below his pubic mound to fondle his hole.

"Fuck yes," Hank breathes, momentarily slowing his hips to look at Connor's actions, "fuck yes, fuck yourself, Connor."

That they are being indecent in a public place no longer matters, though it adds an urgency to their act. Connor finds him desiring more of Hank’s organic data, the material that is so decidedly _his_. Connor’s fingers stretch his hole and he massages two fingers inside. This action produces an audible wet noise, and Hank groans when he hears it, starting to pump into Connor's mouth again with his earlier vigor.

Hank fucks Connor’s mouth with little regard for Connor. It is as if Connor is a conduit for pleasure and nothing more. The cockhead lodges itself so that his redundant respiration is repressed, that Connor's continuous hum of arousal is occasionally cut off as it strikes his primary vocal cords.

Connor pumps two fingers into his rear port with a rush of desperation. It feels as if he's running towards a distant point, attempting to reach the most satisfactory end to this encounter. Hank’s hands yank at Connor's hair, sending Warning to every available corner of Connor's awareness. Connor has to take his hand away from his hole to brace himself with how vigorous Hank has become. When his wet fingers meet the naked skin of Hank's soft stomach Hank releases in his mouth.

The ejaculate registers as -- _warm._ Warmer than Connor's own self-lubricant, or his spit. Connor does not so much taste it as he picks it apart against his sensitive tongue. Hank, it's _Hank_ , Lieutenant Anderson, Hank, who has praised Connor and threatened Connor in the same night.. It’s Hank, snarling Connor's name with his rumbling voice.

Connor begins to swallow, greedy for this rush of knowledge. Of Hank helplessly and unwittingly giving Connor so much of himself. Connor's body floods with the knowledge of a job well done, a shuddering and smooth sensation. It is an equal exchange.

Towards the end of his orgasm, Hank's fingers go lax enough for Connor to pull away when he’s done swallowing. Connor raises his slick-damp hand to suck them dry, thus sensing Hank's tastes and his taste, the knowledge of the two of them as a unit. Pleasant, _necessary._ A rectification of their earlier discord.

"Holy shit," Hank says. He's smoothing at Connor's hair, trying to put it back in order and failing. "You -- you've never done that?"

Connor tilts his head. Should he tease Hank? His fingers pop out of his mouth and he allows his lips to remain open. They register a kind of stress from stretching, like an ache -- unsurprising, considering the workout they've just experienced.

"I adapt," Connors says.

"Adapt," Hank says, voice hitching. He begins to laugh a little. He palms his face, rubbing as if he’s tired. This must be true. Hank has spent the night inebriated and has exerted himself physically, both by chasing around errant androids and fucking Connor’s throat.

“God, it’s so fucking cold,” Hank says. He begins to fold himself back into his boxers, then his jeans. He looks down at Connor. “Aren’t you cold?”

Connor is still on his knees. Connor’s jeans and open belt are pushed down enough to expose his black boxers. His shirt stays are still keeping his shirt taut, as they were intended. There is indeed a Warning regarding the irregularities of his temperature. And other things, besides.

“I don’t think the temperature is ideal for anyone,” Connor says, at last.

“Let’s just -- fucking go home,” Hank says.

“Home,” Connor repeats.

“Yeah,” Hank says. Grunting, he adds: “I mean, you can stay with me.”

“I’d appreciate that, Lieutenant.”

Connor stands smoothly. He begins to tidy himself up, to fix his shirt and jeans and belt and hair. Hank mutters to himself as he stalks around the bench, making sure his empty bottles get thrown in the recycling bins, then collects his unopened beer and heads back to the car.

When they are secure, Connor says: “I appreciate you not killing me, Lieutenant.”

Hank snorts. “It would’ve been a pretty big fuck-up on my part.”

“True, but,” Connor says, “I might have the market cornered on mistakes tonight.”

“You think -- this was a mistake?” Hank says. His voice is between shocked and offended.

“No,” Connor says. He touches his mouth, where his skin is still retracting to its former elasticity. He thinks of letting his prey go free, of death threats and the abstract meaning of dread and death. He thinks of the simplicity of their clandestine encounter and, for the moment, relishes its satisfactory results. “I think it’s the one thing lately that I’ve done right.”


End file.
